


Good.

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Patrician & Clerk [18]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5 Things, Class Differences, Complicated Relationships, Emotionally Repressed, Fluff, Intimacy, Loyalty, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 05:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17954657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: 5 ways Vetinari shows Drumknott he loves him. (+1, where he says it.)He knows his place in the universe, Drumknott says. Order gives him comfort, he says. He is grateful for his position with Vetinari; he admires Vetinari’s steadfastness; he feels fulfilled by his work. He says all these things, softly and intimately, when the two of them lie in bed together, side-by-side.He doesn’t say, I love you.





	Good.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/316.html?thread=52540#cmt52540) on the prompt meme!

# 1.

Neither of them slept the night previous.

Vetinari is rarely affected by these things: so starved of sleep as his body already is, a little more than usual hardly affects his working, and he is too disciplined to let it overly affect him. It takes its toll on Drumknott, though, more than he would admit to, and whilst ordinarily Vetinari would insist he take some time to sleep in the afternoon—

This crisis with the Guild of Clerks and Secretaries has rather required his unique expertise, particularly given the crucial _international_ element. They’ll sleep tonight, though, and Vetinari will insist, he thinks, that they lie in for a time, rise at seven instead of at a little past five.

Drumknott stands at the head of the long table, documents organised in neat lines, organised in an array of in- and out-trays most of the city wouldn’t be able to _comprehend_ , let alone fiddle with, but Vetinari knows that Drumknott will have a perfectly functioning, perfectly secretarial map of it all in his head. “Archive this with E-341, and _this_ with O-19. These documents will need re-codifying, because if they’ve come from Quirm the cryptography will be off, so leave those to me; you, Perkins, finalize that report on Haversham, U.M., and get hold of his address. Renton, take this to the Royal Mint, tout de suite, and don’t go via Pin Lane like you did last time; Fisk, that’s perfect, take it downstairs.” The orders slide easily off Drumknott’s tongue, and the clerks come in and out of the office as if they’ve been perfectly machinated to do so, in neat synchronisation, in perfect order. It’s gratifying, Vetinari muses, to see that the clerks _respect_ him so.

They didn’t, in the beginning, but they do now.

He closes the door behind the last of the clerks, and Vetinari watches him exhale, his fingers spread on the door.

“The day is nearly through,” he mutters, more to himself than to Vetinari. He wished he could offer some sort of comfort, but comforting isn’t in his nature, and besides, the words would be naught but words anyway.

“And yet the week stretches out before us,” Vetinari replies, and Drumknott gives him a rueful smile.

Reaching out, he adjusts Drumknott’s tie, which had already been perfectly straight, but this is only an excuse to bring him closer. He reaches up, feeling the marble-cool side of Drumknott’s cheek, and he gently touches his thumb to the underside of his eye, pushing up the glasses so that he can better see the dark shadows there.

Drumknott’s eyes close, and he leans into Vetinari’s touch, just for a moment.

Then, he draws back, his eyes opening. “I need to go through those Quirmian documents, and recodify them.”

“I know,” Vetinari murmurs. “Pray, don’t let me stop you.”

Drumknott smiles at him. It’s a small smile, a _private_ smile, and he inclines his head just slightly as he turns away.

# 2.

There are things that cannot be said between them. Or—

There are things that Drumknott won’t say. With every year that passes, Vetinari thinks, he becomes a little more confident in his position, in the fact of his being in Vetinari’s bedroom, in his life, in his _heart_ , as well as his work, but still lingers the ghost of class, ever hanging over the younger man’s head like a shadow.

He knows his place in the universe, he says. Order gives him comfort, he says. He is grateful for his position with Vetinari; he admires Vetinari’s steadfastness; he feels fulfilled by his work. He says all these things, softly and intimately, when the two of them lie in bed together, side-by-side.

He doesn’t say, _I love you_.

And Vetinari wouldn’t wish to—

Were _he_ to say it, he is aware, Drumknott would feel a sense of pressure, that he ought reciprocate. Just saying Vetinari’s first name had taken _years_ for him to feel comfortable with, to adjust to.

It cannot be said.

But there are other ways Vetinari might communicate his affection.

It is late in the morning, sometime past six o’clock[1], and Drumknott lies back against the pillows resting on Vetinari’s chest, his shoulders loosely framed by Vetinari’s drawn-up knees. Vetinari gently brings the comb through his hair, letting the teeth play through the soft curls, divesting them of their tangles, and he listens to Drumknott’s even breathing. He’s almost asleep, but not quite, dozing in his place.

One of his hands shifts to rest loosely on Vetinari’s ankle, and Vetinari’s lip twitches as he returns to his work.

# 3.

Drumknott hands him his tea in the morning, and Vetinari reaches up, letting his hand brush against Drumknott’s, their fingers touching. They could hardly be _more_ physical, in a meeting like this, let alone say anything, but they can have this, this subtle little connection. Drumknott gives no outward sign that he has noticed as Vetinari brings his drink up to his lips, looking back to the council meeting, but—

In the reflection of one of the shields on the wall, decorated with a carved rat and buffed to a shine, he sees Drumknott’s little smile.

# 4.

 “No,” Vetinari says, and he puts his hand on Drumknott’s hip. Drumknott lets Vetinari adjust his stance, as he has done a hundred times before, lets Vetinari alter the position of his hip and the set of his shoulder, the positioning of his feet on the ground.

He likes to spar with Drumknott, and to show him how to use new weapons. For years and years, now, it has been a comfortable diversion, where he might position his body, might touch him, where they might _wrestle_ , and fight, and enjoy it.

Drumknott’s hand shifts its grip on the axe, and Vetinari takes a step back, watching him swing, and throw.

The axe hits the centre of the target, but Drumknott frowns anyway, and Vetinari sees why: it has landed at a slight angle, instead of straight, and to Drumknott, this makes it entirely unacceptable. Before Drumknott can retrieve his weapon, Vetinari grabs him from behind, overcome as he is with sudden adoration for Drumknott and his fussy, fastidious ways, and presses a kiss to the side of his temple. He wishes he could say _everything_ : wishes he could lay a thousand compliments, vows, words of adoration, but—

He cannot.

Even if he _could_ , he doubts he could lend them the voice, the elocution, they deserve.

Drumknott stiffens slightly, but then he laughs, relaxes, and leans back into him.

“What was that for?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Vetinari murmurs, patting his hip and then letting him go. “Let’s try again.”

# 5.

“Where is my clerk?” Vetinari asks quietly, and Angua doesn’t argue, or fuss, or ask him any questions. She simply leads him down the stairs and into Igor’s lair, where Drumknott is leaning forward, his elbows braced on his knees as Igor draws the needle through the wound, neatly stitching it shut. There are two more to go, after this one: it had been three claws, and he’d seen Drumknott fall, heard the _scream_ —

“Mr Drumknott,” Angua says, sounding horrified, “didn’t you take the opium?” She must be able to smell the lack of it, Vetinari supposes, the lack of poppy scent in the air. Drumknott’s teeth are clenched, and his hands are tightened into fists, but he doesn’t show any other sign of the pain, doesn’t flinch, as Igor passes the needle through his skin again and again.

“I have no need of it, Captain Angua,” Drumknott says tightly. “My thanks for your concern.”

Vetinari moves slowly forward, and Drumknott looks at him, saying nothing. They cannot speak, of course, before Igor or Angua; nor, indeed, can Vetinari reach out and take Drumknott’s hand, interlink their fingers; nor can Vetinari card his fingers through Drumknott’s hair[2].

He stands beside Drumknott’s bed, close enough that Drumknott can feel his warmth beside him, if nothing else, and he watches the slight relaxation of Drumknott’s shoulders. He sits down.

“Get Vimes, would you?” Vetinari asks.

He ought go up to Vimes’ office, but he won’t. He should rather stay here, for the moment.

Angua doesn’t argue, and Drumknott sighs in pain and satisfaction.

# +1

“Havelock,” Drumknott says. His voice is slightly tight, and awkward – it usually is, when he makes use of Vetinari’s forename, although it has been loosening, in recent years. It has been relaxing, and every inch closer to normality feels—

 _Good_.

The sun is rising, and the two of them are standing on the balcony in Überwald, watching: it is dark and grey and dismal, even as the sun streaks across the sky, which is so red as to be as blood. They stand side by side, their elbows against the edge of it, and Vetinari turns to look at him, smiling just slightly. Drumknott’s expression is faraway.

“Yes, Rufus?” he asks.

“I am… _sorry_ ,” he says, slowly, as if fighting with himself to say the words, “for my… reticence, at times, in showing my affection for you. You understand, I hope, that my inhibition is no reflection on my feelings for you.”

“I understand,” Vetinari says softly.

“My feeling for you, in fact, is… I should go so far as to say fervid. Nearly _ungovernable_ , actually, owing to the state of my, ah, passions.”

Vetinari stares at Drumknott’s face as he looks out over Margolotta’s grounds, his gaze pointedly _not_ on Vetinari himself. Perhaps it is because they are abroad that he feels free to speak so frankly, but the reason hardly matters: Vetinari feels a warmth in his chest, and he leans in slightly closer, intertwining their fingers. The apple of Drumknott’s throat bobs as he swallows.

“I adore you as I might adore anything,” Drumknott says quietly. “More so, in fact, than anything, or everything, bar—”

“Bar Ankh-Morpork.”

“—Ankh-Morpork,” Drumknott finishes, and he exhales shakily.

“I love you too,” Vetinari says simply.

Drumknott shudders, a burning flush creeping up his cheeks, and Vetinari takes his chance, dragging his lips over the back of Drumknott’s hand. It’s too much for him, as Vetinari knew it would be: Drumknott draws his hand gently away, and he disappears back into the bedroom to focus on some paperwork. Vetinari feels no scorn.

He still feels a desperate warmth in his chest, and he beams as he watches the sun rise up.

 _I adore you_ , he had said. _As anything_.

Vetinari allows himself one more smile, and then he turns back inside, to fall into working alongside his clerk.

 

[1] Most people in the city would wince at the sleeping habits of Drumknott _or_ Vetinari, but in the scheme of their lives, these things were astoundingly regular, and actually relatively healthy.

[2] Even if he could, he likely wouldn’t. Vetinari had learned very quickly that he didn’t much care for the sensation of brilliantine clinging to his palms.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). Requests always open. 
> 
> And please, please, prompt some stuff on [the Prompt Meme!](https://onthedisc.dreamwidth.org/316.html) You can do so anonymously if you want, and you don't need a Dreamwidth account to prompt or to fill!


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